Page 75 of Escape The Light

I’ve noticed the tension has slowly slipped away and the pain, too. The pain was crushing. Palpable. It has taken me a long time, but I’m finally able to accept nothing will ever be the same and to be grateful for what I had before now, for the people I loved before this life,for him. Those memories I look back on fondly. Some still feel as tender as a bruise, but it is a small reminder that I fell in love, and for that, I’m thankful. I’ve had little contact with the outside world. A laptop and new phone were both here on arrival and have kept me up to date with what is transpiring on the fringes of my old life. Miranda and Georgie finalised my perfume and released it in my memory. They named it Zara. I cried for days on finding out. I cried at the loss of them from my life, the loss of Callan and Oscar, and at losing myself. Images of my funeral and the devastated faces left me distraught. I know they are safe, and that is a small price to pay.

I no longer look. Can't. Watching Oscar’s downfall after my supposed death and seeing Callan’s images suddenly popping up on social media with woman after woman had my broken heart turning to chiselled ice.

It’s better this way. I know that no matter how ashamed I am for hurting Oscar, there is a small part of me that is still devastated that he assisted the Yovenkos in capturing me. The physical torture at their hands still plays on my mind. It could have been so much worse, and I know that, but it never makes it easier to forget the crunch of a boot to my stomach or fist in my face. I do wonder if his downfall to drink and drugs is his own guilt crushing him.

I’ve been awake for a while, but my alarm tinkers to my left and I roll to switch it off. I have tried to remain in a routine and busy. The sun streams through the wispy white curtain, and beyond that, the rough blanket of Aegean sea lulls against the shoreline.

I had no idea what would happen when I got on that plane or where I would end up, but the modest villa on the outskirts of a small village in Crete wasn’t one of them. At first, being in Greece was a cruel reminder of a time with Callan, but I have grown to love the connection I still have with him. I get out of bed and head straight for the shower as always. My hair is longer than it’s ever been, but I can’t ask anyone to cut it, and it’s easier to plait at this length. I twist my hair into a braid and tie it into place.

When I step out of the shower, I put on my robe to go and grab some breakfast, like I do every morning. Even for February, the weather isn’t bad, and I take my breakfast out onto the small decking leading down to the rugged coastline. This is my favourite view. The villa is small enough that it doesn't draw attention, yet private enough that I’m left alone and with the open access to the small secluded cove, where I can enjoy some freedom without interruption. The one-storey white building circles a courtyard, which is perfect for privacy too. The rooms are wide and sparse, the windows shuttered, and not once has anyone shown any sign they recognise me. I believe that's because most of the residents are all elderly or as shut off from the real world as this village is. They have never heard of me or Callan or anyone else on the ‘A’ list. Nevertheless, I still take precautions when leaving the villa. I’m sure if I left the house with hair as black as night, the town folk would still call me Lia. Another bitter pill to swallow was saying goodbye to both Zara Reid and Olivia Monroe, but the note attached to the package containing my new identity and electronics softened the torment.

You will always be Zara to me and Olivia to your father, and this way, you can keep a little part of yourself.

Be safe, Lia Roem.

All my love C x

I had a new passport, ID card, and bank account. You name it, Callan had covered it, and the deeds to the villa were in Lia’s name. He plucked letters from my previous lives and conjured up a new name for me. Another thing I was grateful for. No matter how much I had hated him for walking away from me, he had still been thoughtful about providing a new life for me and giving it meaning.

Finishing up my breakfast, I wash up and find a pair of jeans and a lightweight knit jumper. I pin my now-dyed blonde hair up and place the light blue contacts in my eyes, ridding my face of my usual green. I collect up my bag, slip my pumps on, and lock up. It’s still fairly early, but I know most in the small town will be awake by now. The farmers’ market will be a hive of quiet activity, and I can already smell the fresh bread lingering on the sea air.

It takes me no more than ten minutes to make the journey. I pass a small house on my way. The old man living there rarely ventures out and seems to be happy in the little bubble he has created, just as I am. My hair wisps and blows as the sea air catches it. Glancing over, I see him ambling around outside in his dusty front yard, and he lifts his craggy arm, so I smile back. Sometimes, I have debated doing something nice for him, such as dropping some bread off or fresh fish, but Callan was adamant I keep to myself if I could.

As soon as I hit the village edge, the roads turn from dust to cobble. The streets are narrow and are decorated with different coloured sash windows or flower baskets, the fragrance, sweet, and light. I weave between streets, down wider roads, minding the odd cyclist or old car, pottering along until I turn a corner and the main village centre opens up before me. It’s small and nothing like the size of the nearest town. The market is all but a few stalls laden with fresh produce. I don't need much as my fridge is stocked, but I do enjoy having a nose and picking up the odd treat. The rush of tiny footsteps pounds the ground, and three girls run past, giggling. One, a dark-haired little thing struggling to keep up, swings a look over her shoulder.

“Hello, Miss Lia,” she says breathlessly, her toothy grin bringing a smile to my face.

“Hi, Thalia,” I call softly. She waves a petite arm and races off after the two faster girls. That was one person I couldn't ignore. After a few weeks of her approaching me and asking me an abundance of questions, I finally gave in and started to chat back to her. She was persistent, sweet, and I could see the residents eyeing me suspiciously and with annoyance that I was trying to snub a cute, innocent girl. Now she surprises me with flowers or a picture she has made. I’m slowly being welcomed into the community. I reach a stand, pull my string bag free and put a few fresh oranges in, and the lady who owns the stall smiles at me.

“Storm later,” she tells me in broken English. I glance at the clear sky and frown.

“Oh, really.” It looks perfect to me. I’d expect the island to be more prone to storms in the summer months when it’s really hot, or maybe that’s because I was used to that in England.

“Stay indoors,” she warns. I nod at her and thank her whilst I pay. I move on and buy some bread. I mooch around the stalls, picking up one or two more bits and head back up the dusty path to my home. I never stay in the centre long, favouring the seclusion of the villa. The man is gone, but beyond his property, I see a boat floating in the sun. I hope they know a storm is coming. I watch it bobbing idly under the cloudy sky. One thing I haven’t done since being here is get on a boat. I’m sure someone local could take me out. I wouldn't dare navigate the sea alone. I decide to ask someone in the village about going on a boat tour the next time I wander down for supplies.

I’m sweating by the time I reach my door, and stepping in, I welcome the cool air. It is fairly oppressive outside; I realise. Is that how the lady knew a storm was brewing? I need to remember to shut all the sash windows before I go to bed, I think, putting my bag down. I’m yet to experience a storm here. So far, the weather has been mostly sunny and dry, with the odd day of rainfall.

The rest of the day I spend cleaning and washing. By evening, the sky has blackened, and I’ve locked myself away safely. Without the added light, the villa seems smaller. Rain pounds the wooden slats outside, and I can hear the sea crashing below. I worry about the boat and if they made it home okay. The only thing to keep me occupied is going into my little workshop; it’s a tiny room filled with jewellery I’ve made. I’d spent hours watching YouTube, making mistake after mistake, throwing ruined pieces into the bin or using them for decoration around the house, but now I’m managing to produce some nice pieces. I’ve even considered selling some bits online. I settle in and get to work making a leaf design bracelet I have wanted to try. I zone out, and the storm becomes nothing more than a comforting rumble. Hours pass, and I lift my arm, happy with the delicate wreath around my wrist. It matches the simple leaf ring I made last week. I slip that on my finger, tidy up the room, and shut the light off.

It’s nearly midnight by the time I remove my lenses and clean my face. I double-check all the locks and stay by the door for a moment, staring out of the only uncovered door leading onto the back decking. It’s sheltered by a small veranda but offers a view of the sea and small beach below. The sky lights up as thunder roars and rolls ahead, the sea only visible when the lightning screams across the dark clouds. It’s turbulent and dangerous.

I stand and stare out at the fierceness in front of me, wondering what Callan is doing right now. I often wonder if he thinks of me. He said so much, but his actions had me guessing every word until I learnt to believe my feelings were the only true ones. I sigh and wish for him to be happy. After everything he did for me, he deserves that much. For all he has endured with his family, he deserves happiness and tucked away in this remote life. I could never give him that. He knew that. I pad to bed and listen to the pound of rain until I’m drifting into a deep sleep, thinking of black irises and intricate tattoos.

I wake with a start. My alarm is loud, and when I lift my phone, I can see it’s been going off for a while. I never sleep as deeply as that. I roll out of bed, groaning, and head straight for the shower, waking myself up. Outside is a mess. The wind has knocked pots over, and my small table and chair set is askew, with dust and sand littering the decking.

“Great.” I dry and dress quickly, making a drink and picking up a banana for convenience so that I can get outside to sort out the mess the storm has caused. I replace pots, sweep the floor, and neaten the place up. Something in the corner of my eye has me looking down. Below, in the cove, tied to the wooden dock, is the boat. I frown and head inside. Unease prickles at my scalp, but I try to calm my paranoia by telling myself they anchored up to keep safe from the storm. Tony supplied me with an emergency contact number, saying I was only to use if I was in danger. I don’t wish to jump to conclusions. I did too much of that with Callan. I still wonder if I had made the connection about Isabella, would I be here now?

I’d planned to head into the village again today for lunch. Seeing everyone milling about and being a part of each other’s lives yesterday made me want to return and enjoy it all from the open front café. I expect the boat owner to head up the steep path and knock on my door, but as morning passes, I realise they have gone.

I check over my reflection before I leave. I quite like my hair blonde.It’s very girl next door cute and makes my sharp cheeks seem softer. I wonder what Vogue would write about me now. They certainly wouldn’t be raving about my undeniable beauty. That part of me is gone. It’s cooler out since the storm, so I pick up my jacket, shrugging it on as I leave. The trail is damp, and the barren terrain is soaking it up like a starved man. I keep my pace quick and find the village far quieter today. When I enter the centre, people are milling around, tidying up and knocking nails into signs that succumbed to the storm. I decide to help and pick up a turned over chair, placing it back against the wall of someone’s home.

Thalia races towards me.“My window broke!” she exclaims. Her little feet are bare and smattered with mud. She kicks her toes on the cobbles and wipes her cheek, adding more dirt. “Did yours, Miss Lia?” She blinks, wiping again and causing more mess to spread on her face. It makes me want to laugh. She is adorable.

I crouch down and smile at her. I enjoy our little chats, but after the life I’ve lived and witnessed, I could never bring a child into it. Perhaps that's why I give her so much of my time.

“No, just my table. I need to fix it,” I tell her. Her English is good, but I refrain from saying so.

She gulps in airwhen I mention my tableand smiles at mewhen I grin at her.

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